


Yellow Tulips

by Salambo06, weweretold



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, First Kiss, Florist AU, Flowers, Language of Flowers, M/M, Spring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 07:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6695686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salambo06/pseuds/Salambo06, https://archiveofourown.org/users/weweretold/pseuds/weweretold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the florist looked up to put the vase on the counter, he apparently noticed the arrival of his new customer. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” he said in a bright tone, before turning back to the flustered lady and ringing up her purchase. He herded her out the door, closing it after her and turned back to Sherlock. He put his hands behind his back and raised his face up to catch Sherlock’s eye, an open expression in his eyes. “How can I help you, then?”</p><p>“I’m looking for a bouquet.”</p><p>“Oh really?” The man’s tone was mocking, a glint in his bright blue eyes.</p><p>Sherlock rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. “I– Well, there’s… You’ve got all of these…” He winced. “Things. Trinkets. Could have been anything.” There was something about the cheeky expression of the florist that made his breath high in his chest and his words come out jumbled.</p><p>The florist chuckled. “I’m teasing. Sorry. Any special occasion?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spring Challenge collaboration with Salambo06 writing as John, weweretold writing as Sherlock.

After closing the door behind him – the polite little bell rang – Sherlock turned around and rubbed his hands against each other impatiently, trying to warm his fingers. Even though the sun was starting to pick up some of its spring force already, it was still cold outside, the crisp cold of late winter. He cursed Mycroft for making him pick up a bouquet of flowers for their parents’ anniversary. As if it wasn’t hassle enough already to spend a free Saturday in their parental house, when he was already so much behind on his experimenting and reading and updating his website..

The flower shop on the corner of Baker Street was open again after it’d been closed for a month or so. Sherlock cast an impolite glance towards the far corner of the shop, where two people were talking in hushed tones, both their backs turned towards the door. The woman on the right was wearing a coat and carrying a bag, so the man on the left must be the new owner. Sherlock frowned. What would inspire a man of about forty years old, with a military background, judging from his posture, and an apparent knack for cream-coloured jumpers, to take over Watson’s Flowers?

The shop was different, Sherlock noticed: less colourful, less sweet-smelling. There were a bunch of shelves dedicated to herbs now, and some larger, sturdy plants in the corner. No more tacky whitewashed home ornaments or novelty garden gnomes. This new owner surely had a different taste than the old lady who used to run the shop in earlier years.

“Oooh!” A high whoop sounded from the corner, where the customer had apparently swept a small vase from the counter with her purse. The florist caught it before it could shatter. The corners of Sherlock’s mouth turned upwards on their own device. Excellent reflexes.

When the florist looked up to put the vase on the counter, he apparently noticed the arrival of his new customer. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” he said in a bright tone, before turning back to the flustered lady and ringing up her purchase. He herded her out the door, closing it after her and turned back to Sherlock. He put his hands behind his back and raised his face up to catch Sherlock’s eye, an open expression in his eyes. “How can I help you, then?”

“I’m looking for a bouquet.”

“Oh really?” The man’s tone was mocking, a glint in his bright blue eyes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. “I– Well, there’s… You’ve got all of these…” He winced. “Things. Trinkets. Could have been anything.” There was something about the cheeky expression of the florist that made his breath high in his chest and his words come out jumbled.

The florist chuckled. “I’m teasing. Sorry. Any special occasion?”

“Anniversary.”

“Ah.” The man nodded. “I’m John Watson, by the way.” He held out his hand. “New owner–”

“New owner of Watson’s Flowers,” Sherlock interrupted. “My condolences.”

“Um. Thanks.” John frowned. “You knew my mother?”

“I know that an older lady used to run the shop, which was closed abruptly a month ago, and now there’s a man about thirty years her junior, same last name, running the shop.” Sherlock inclined his head. “Hardly a wild guess.”

John inhaled deeply. “Right. Anniversary. I’m thinking yellow irises and spanish jasmine?”

Sherlock snorted. “You’d really have me give my parents symbols for passion and sensuality?”

“Oh, I see.” John chuckled, nodding his head. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Not for your girlfriend, then?”

Sherlock half turned around to inspect a bucket of flowers next to him. “Not really my area.”

“Alright then.” John smiled before turning toward the far back of his shop. “I'll have what you need back there.”

Sherlock followed silently behind him, his eyes trailing over John’s body, the hard line of his shoulders, the gentle curve of his lower back, the surprising hints of raw power in his short stature.

John interrupted his thoughts – “Which anniversary is it?” – when they arrived the back of the shop, turning to face his client.

“I have no idea.”

John laughed. “You have no idea?”

“A long time.” Sherlock shrugged. He could hardly be expected to keep track of these things. John’s giggle made him feel giddy rather than mocked.

“Alright. What about red Chrysanthemum?”

Sherlock nodded in agreement. “Love.” So the man did know his floriography.

“Seems appropriate,” John smiled.

“Fine, whatever will do.”

John started picking out the flowers and some foliage, while Sherlock did his best not to stare at him too much.

“I’ll prepare something nice,” John declared, walking back to his counter. 

While John was working on the bouquet, Sherlock couldn’t help looking him over. There was something interesting about him. Something in the way he held himself, the sparkle in his bright blue eyes, the tongue darting out to wet his lips, his nimble fingers on the green flower stalks, made Sherlock exceptionally curious about him.

He cleared his throat. “Seems a bit surprising that a man of military background would run a flower shop.”

“I… What?” John’s hands on the bouquet stilled, his head tilting upwards to look at Sherlock, one of the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a crooked grin.

Sherlock couldn’t suppress a satisfied smirk at John’s apparent speechlessness. “Your posture and haircut suggest a recent position in the army abroad. Most likely Middle-East. On the other hand, your knowledge of horticulture exceeds that of a typical layman, even one with florists as parents, indicating you’re a trained botanist. But what would a… Oh!” Sherlock’s smile widened. This was getting more and more interesting. “A botanist on a British army expedition in Afghanistan? Drug squad, I’m guessing, then?” Something inside his throat fluttered in anticipation of John’s reaction.

John’s mouth dropped open. He seemed flustered. “That… Was amazing.”

John’s smile made something warm bloom up in Sherlock’s chest. God, this man was getting more interesting by the minute. All of Sherlock’s earlier annoyances at Mycroft badgering him to get flowers had vanished completely. He’d have to find more opportunities to buy flowers soon.

“It wasn’t that hard.” Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back to keep himself from fidgeting. “Afghanistan produces a large amount of the world’s opiates, obviously owing to its large quantities of poppy fields, and it makes sense that the army would employ a botanist to identify the specific species of poppy that is used for opiate production. Wouldn’t want to arrest any innocent gardeners, after all.”

“And you just _happen_ to know all this?” There was a smile in John’s voice, a hint of incredulity. “This, and also the –” he waved his hand around, “– what’s it called, the meaning of flowers?”

“Floriography? Well, I…” Sherlock turned to study a plant on the counter, suddenly bashful. “I read a lot.”

John chuckled, turning back to the bouquet-under-construction to put some green foliage around the chrysanthemums. “I have to say, I’m impressed.”

**

John didn't know what to think about his client.

He had learned never to trust a first impression. He had meet enough people to know you can easily be surprised, and he had to admit he liked these little moments of discovery. But this client, with his deep voice and mysterious attitude, made John want to know more. In the ten minutes they've been alone in the shop, John had managed to be taken aback twice by the man’s words. John pride himself to always find the right flower for each client, a savoir-faire he had learned from his mother, but there was something about this man. Something John couldn't quite name yet.

“Impressed?” 

John looked up again, smiling as the man’s eyes flickered to him quickly.

“Yes, impressed,” John repeated before looking back at the bouquet again. “Are you some kind of a private detective or something?”

The man snorted. “Absolutely not.”

John glanced back up, frowning and a little bit worried he just ruined the easy conversation that was settle if between them but his client only stepped closer, hands still clasped behind his back and the same small smile on his lips.

“I'm a consulting detective, only one in the world.” 

John could easily discern the pride in the man’s voice, but also something more discreet, more unsure. 

“Consulting detective?” He inquired, taking much more time than usual fixing the flowers. 

“Whenever the police are out of their depth, which is alarmingly often, they ask for my help.” 

John laughed, “I can see how valuable it can be to read a person’s life in one look, and surely the police does too.”

This time his client’s face closed a bit, the spark of shared interest fading. John bite down his tongue, cursing himself for whatever he may just have said that upset the man.

“All this knowledge about floriography,” he hurried to continue, “relevant to a previous detective business?”

“You can say that.” 

John waited for more explanation, hands still on the bouquet and his breath suddenly shorter. He really couldn't have ruined everything with just one sentence? But his client remained silent, eyeing the bouquet.

“Finished,” John finally said, “I'm sure your parents will love it.”

“Obviously.”

“I'll need a name for the record,” John smiled, back to full politeness. 

“Holmes.” The man walked to the counter, taking out his wallet. “Sherlock Holmes.”

John nodded, writing down the strange but fitting name. “Forty pounds, please.”

Sherlock handed him the money, grabbing the bouquet but not walking out just yet. John put away the money, smiling as he looked back up and found himself speechless. Of course he had noticed Sherlock’s sharp cheekbones the moment he had walked in, the long coat making him all the more mysterious and the piercing eyes that seemed to be everywhere at the same time. But now, with Sherlock just before him, John wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. 

“You should put the Plumeria outside,” Sherlock declared in a deadpan voice, turning around to walk to the shop door. 

“Plumeria?” John quickly followed him but Sherlock was already stepping outside when he caught up with him. 

“Yes, the Plumeria.” He looked back at John for a second or two, the same strange smile on his lips. “Goodbye, John Watson.”

John barely had time to respond, the words dying on his lips as Sherlock disappeared into the crowded streets. John waited outside for a moment, stupidly hoping he would catch sight of a dark coat and even darker hair but nothing. 

Walking back inside, he glanced at the Plumeria on the far left of his shop. He hurried back to his counter, quickly searching the Internet for the meanings hidden behind this particular flower. He didn't remember all the details from his course about floriography, but this Sherlock had made it clear he knew about it pretty well, and John hurried to type in the flower’s name.

_Plumeria, most known to mean perfection, springtime, new beginnings._

John smiled. Somehow, he was now certain it wouldn't take long before one Sherlock Holmes would pass his shop’s door again. 

In the end, John found himself looking up to watch Sherlock Holmes enter his shop less than 24 hours later. John tried to hide a smile, chatting with his current customers but keeping an eye on Sherlock as he walked around the shop. He wasn't wearing his coat today but a simple dark suit, perfectly buttoned, and a purple shirt that made his neck look even more lean and pale than yesterday. 

“So what do you think?” the young girl asked and John shook his head, focusing back on her demand.

“Yes, Rose Daphane are a great choice. I'm sure your mother in law will love them.” 

“Thank you,” she reached for his arm, smiling, “I was getting desperate.”

John nodded, picking up the flowers before walking back behind his workshop. Sherlock was out of his sight, probably somewhere in the back of the shop and John tried not to look for him too obviously. He needed to be careful not to show too much.

“Thank you again, really.”

“I'm glad I could help,” John smiled, walking her back to the door.

“Your shop is wonderful,” she continued and John began to worry she would never leave. 

“Thank you.” He opened the door. “It'll be my pleasure to help you again soon.”

She smiled at him again, a hand brushing through her hair before walking away. John couldn't get the door closed fast enough. He headed directly toward the back of the shop, hands strangely shaking in anticipation.

“Rose Daphane are known to mean I desire to please,” a deep voice stopped him and John smiled, “I'm quite certain she loves to please in people in many ways.”

John chuckled out loud, turning around to face Sherlock. “So, did your parents like the flowers?”

**

Sherlock frowned, considering the question. He hadn’t really paid attention to his parents’ reaction when he’d plonked the flowers on the kitchen table, instead focusing more on his discussion with Mycroft about the prime minister’s latest sexual escapades. (Not that Sherlock knew who the prime minister was at the moment, but it was a fun exercise to make second-hand deductions based on Mycroft’s observations and deductions. Literally a next-level challenge. On the other hand, he’d be more productive if he’d get a cab by himself next time, instead of riding with Mycroft.)

He scrambled for words for a second, then remembered his own discomfort at his parents’ and brother’s exorbitant approval of the flowers. For some reason, their gushing about the bouquet had made Sherlock feel like a five-year-old who’d brought home a drawing.

“Yes,” he said, frowning still, “I think they did.”

“Good to hear,” John said in a slow, tentative voice, looking at Sherlock with an inquisitive gaze.

Sherlock smoothed out his face and smiled vaguely, unwilling to explain his discomfort at his family’s reaction. The nerves fluttered in the back of his throat when John smiled back. He’d not been able to get John off his mind since he’d exited the shop yesterday, and when he woke up this morning, he was already amped up on the idea of returning to the flower shop. But now he found himself here with an unclear idea of what to do. He liked John, yes, but he could hardly just ask him out on a date when they barely knew each other.

Flowers, then? He’d have to come up with something, and that was at least something not out of place in their current location. “I’m looking for another bouquet,” he ventured.

Behind them, the soft bell above the door tingled with new customers coming in. John looked towards the door quickly before moving his eyes back to Sherlock’s face.

“Oh, really?” John pulled his face into a defiant smile. “More parents with anniversaries, then?”

“No, it’s,” Sherlock hesitated – for a case, his brain supplied, but why would he need flowers for a case, that was ridiculous, he’d have to come up with something else – “just, er, for my apartment.”

He shook his head briefly to clear his thoughts, determined to pull himself together. Clenching his mouth shut, he looked around the shop to avoid John’s eyes, forcing himself to calm down a bit. Another couple just entered the shop, an older man and his wife, bit too well-dressed for this part of town, looking around in clear shock, haven’t been here in a while, might have been acquaintances of the old owner, unaware of her recent passing.

Good. Right. He inhaled deeply. Nothing like a good deduction to cleanse one’s palate of a ridiculous nervousness.

“Right, okay.” John sounded surprised. “Wouldn’t have pegged you as a flower man, I guess.”

“I am full of surprises,” Sherlock said, unable to keep a hint of sarcasm out of his voice.

John snorted with laughter. “Really? I am tempted to probe further, but I’m a bit afraid of what I’d find.” He cocked his head. “Then again, a consulting detective with an interest in floriography, not sure how much more surprising it can get.”

Christ. Was this man flirting with him now? Sherlock was often thought to be oblivious to (and uninterested in) everything pertaining to love and relationships, but that definitely wasn’t true – most people were just not interesting enough. Usually, he actively discouraged people who had any sort of romantic interest in him, but this man’s presence was simply intoxicating.

“I don’t have flowers around the house often, no. But my apartment could use a bit of a brightening up.” He turned around to face John, looking directly into his bright blue eyes. “What would you recommend?”

The beating of his heart must be audible by now. But really, it was John’s fault for standing so near him and looking at him so intensely and smelling so awfully good, of flowers and soil and herbs and of spring, somehow.

John smiled. “I’d love to put something together for you.” He inhaled deeply, quickly running his tongue over his bottom lip. “Look, tell me if this is inconvenient, but I’d really like to make something special of it, and there’s a bunch of people waiting.” He gestured towards the people in the shop.

“Oh,” Sherlock interrupted, “if it’s easier if I pick them up tomorrow, I’m in no rush.” He’d rather see John as quickly as possible, of course, but at least this way he’d have something to look forward to.

“Actually…” John’s voice trailed off, and he looked pensive. “If you’re not in any particular rush, I’ve actually got a rare type of flower coming in in a few days, that I’d love to use in your bouquet.” He looked up at Sherlock, pursing his lips. “Could I maybe give you a call when I’m done? Or actually, I figure you live in the neighbourhood since you’ve obviously been here before, I could even bring them round, end of the day?”

Sherlock smiled calmly, doing his best to keep his composure but internally screaming in joy and excitement and nervousness and impatience. “That would be lovely. Let me give you my number, give me a call whenever you’re done, and we’ll see what’s convenient.”


	2. Chapter 2

John felt like a teenager again. It was stupid, really. He was a grown man, he had gone to war, fought and patched up more soldiers than he could remember. He had take over the shop without a single hesitation, already dealt with annoying customers and made dozens of bouquets. So really, texting someone shouldn't make him so bloody nervous.

But then, it wasn't just anyone.

Sherlock Holmes had haunted him all day since he first came to his shop five days ago. John couldn't seem to think about anything else but dark curls, lean body and sharp cheekbones. He looked up from his counter every time the doorbell rang, hoping to see Sherlock walk in and each time he had to hide the sudden deception when another random customers entered.

He had spent hours working on Sherlock’s bouquet. John wasn't stupid, he knew Sherlock didn't actually care about the bouquet, but still, John had wanted to make it as beautiful as he could. Now that it was done, John’s heart was beating way too fast as he picked up his phone and wrote:

**[sent at 11:34]** **  
** _Mr. Holmes, your bouquet is ready and waiting for you at the shop. You can come pick it up within opening hours (8:00 to 12:30/14:00 to 19:00). John Watson._

John put the phone back on his pocket, inhaling deeply before joining the older woman who had came in ten minutes ago and who had been staring at the same flower for that entire time. John had customers like her before, older women who only wanted to talk to someone for just a little time, and to be honest, John liked those moments. It remained him of his mother, of her eternal gentle smile and her ability to do small talk for hours.

His phone buzzed just as he closed the door, fifteen minutes later and John couldn't take it out fast enough.

**[received at 11:51]** **  
** _I'm currently away for a case and won't be able to come until tomorrow. SH_

John swallowed back his disappointment, heart beating too fast as he hit the reply button, but his text alert resonated again.

**[received at 11:52]** **  
** _I may need your expertise actually, respond if convenient. SH_

**[received at 11:52]** **  
** _If inconvenient, respond anyway. SH_

John smiled, checking the time before deciding to close early. He could just go get a sandwich and open earlier in the afternoon. He needed to work on some delivery anyway.

**[sent at 11:54]** **  
** _I’m currently free to help you in any way I can, Mr. Holmes._

**[received at 11:56]** **  
** _Sherlock, please. SH_

**[received at 11:57]** **  
** _Victim found in a field, outside of London, probable death by poisoning. The victim was surrounded by various flowers and I need to know if any of them may be the causes of death. I'm sending you a picture. SH_

John bit his lower lip. Part of him was getting more and more excited, just at the mere thought of helping Sherlock work a case. But the other part kept him wondering how a man, a detective who know about floriology, may need his help.

Opening the attached picture, John decided to let himself go just this once. He had Sherlock’s attention and planned on keeping it for as long as he could. He took one look at the picture, eyes scanning the body quickly, efficiently, before moving to the flower on the ground. _Got you!_

**[sent at 12:02]** **  
** _Cornclocke, small pink flower next to the victim’s left arm, deadly poisonous. Could cause severe stomach pain, vomiting, diarrhoea, dizziness, slow breathing and even death._

**[received at 12:03]** **  
** _I had my suspicions, the victim’s husband is a biologist. SH_

**[sent at 12:04]** **  
** _Didn't actually need my help, did you?_

**[received at 12:06]** **  
** _On the contrary, it would have take me time to find which flower exactly caused the death. SH_

**[sent at 12:08]** **  
** _What, 15 minutes?_

**[received at 12:10]** **  
** _10\. SH_

John laughed, looking up to make sure no one heard before remembering he was alone. He couldn't remember the last time he had laughed so genuinely.

**[received at 12:11]** **  
** _I'll be at your shop around noon tomorrow to get my bouquet. SH_

**[sent at 12:13]** **  
** _It will be waiting for you._

John’s fingers hovered over his phone, considering typing more, daring more, but pressed send instead. Tomorrow. He would ask tomorrow. John waited for another two minutes, knowing his last text didn't need an answer, before putting his phone away again and walked to the back shop. He had already spend hours on Sherlock’s bouquet, but the urge to check it one last time was too strong to resist. He had used the flower with precaution, knowing Sherlock would read the meaning behind each at the first sight. John hoped his message would pass through the bouquet. He had had the time to think about Sherlock in the past few days.

Sherlock Holmes was a interesting man, a gorgeous man. John had never been the kind of man who lied to himself. He was attracted to Sherlock, had been since the moment he had walked inside his shop, and John was determined to seduce him.

**

John had been on Sherlock’s mind for days, even though he’d been chasing after a criminal all the way to bloody Birmingham. It was a strange sensation. Sherlock had never been one for sentiment, but for some reason he constantly found himself thinking: what would John Watson think of this? What kind of flower is this, and would it look good with John’s blue eyes? What is John doing at the moment?

Even when it had rained in Birmingham, and the sky had been the colour of molten lead, the thought of John had felt like warm sun on his skin.

And now he was back in London, walking to John Watson’s shop, with the _actual_ sun on his skin, and it seemed like time wasn’t flowing nearly fast enough, even though the shop was only a few street corners away and each step was bringing him closer to John. It would only be a few minutes until he’d see John, but the past few days had felt like centuries and the concept of John Watson had almost become an abstract one.

It made him nervous. What if he’d been completely mistaken when he’d thought John had been flirting with him? What if it had all been in his mind?

_God. Stop thinking, Sherlock._

He busied his mind with deductions of passing strangers – philandering shopkeeper, adult performer looking for a job, writer with three cats and a love for vintage Vespas – until he had Watson’s Flowers in sight, and took a deep breath when he pushed open the door of the shop.

John was standing in the back of the shop, leaning his elbows on the counter and reading a magazine. When he looked up at Sherlock, their eyes locked, and John’s mouth drew into a smile. Sherlock felt out of breath. (He hadn’t been walking that fast, had he? Maybe he had.)

John was wearing a chequered shirt, sleeves rolled up to expose his muscular forearms. The sun shining through the window painted a halo of light around him.

“Afternoon,” John said with a smile. “Good to see you.”

He closed the magazine and ambled over, making Sherlock aware that he was frozen to the spot by the sight of John. He forced himself to move, casually strolling over towards John, so that they met each other in the middle of the shop, surrounded by bright, fresh smells and colours. John’s eyes seemed even brighter, almost translucent, by the sun. It was warm in the shop, and Sherlock cursed himself for bringing his coat.

“Likewise,” he nodded, unable to suppress a warm grin.

John cocked his head to the side. “Busy with work then, these past few days?”

“Yes. Thank you again for your assistance, by the way. I was able to apprehend the killer in a matter of minutes.”

“Wild chase?”

Images of sprints through the inner city streets of Birmingham shot through Sherlock’s mind. Of sprinting across a busy intersection, jumping a fence, clambering onto a fire escape, breaking a window for the sake of a much faster shortcut, jumping over an occupied dinner table, accompanied by indignant shouts of the unlucky diners.

He shrugged. “Rather tame, actually. You?”

John smiled. “Same old.” He wrinkled his nose. “Even after a month.”

“I was actually wondering about that.” Sherlock studied the man. He had seemed so exceptionally happy with the small exchange they’d had via text message. “The flower shop business seems hardly exciting enough for an ex-army man.”

“Maybe. I thought it would be good for me. Some peace and quiet. I’m not twenty anymore, you know.”

Sherlock chuckled. “A taste for danger hardly disappears with the years, John.”

“I thought it might.” John shrugged. “Maybe it hasn’t. Maybe it won’t. But, you know, bread on the table.”

“You never told me why you quit the army.” Sherlock had a hunch, but he’d rather hear it from John himself.

John cleared his throat and looked at the clock on the wall. “You know what, I’m closing for lunch in fifteen minutes. How about I close a little early and we grab some lunch at the sidewalk café across the street?”

Sherlock’s smile broadened – Christ, his face was starting to hurt, he never smiled this much – and he nodded. “Sounds good.”

“Oh, let me give you your bouquet first, by the way.” John quickly walked over to the back of the shop and picked up a large bunch of flowers.

The bouquet was spectacular. It was wild, and warm in colour, consisting of red daisies, purple heather, purple lilacs, hibiscus, and if Sherlock wasn’t mistaken, the fluffy greens of asparagus foliage. Sherlock’s heart jumped up into his throat. Had John done this by accident? Or had he purposefully assembled a bouquet out of flowers that meant things like beauty unknown to possessor, admiration, first emotions of love, rare and delicate beauty, fascination?

He couldn’t be sure, but it _seemed_ like John was trying to say something with this.

**

The coffee shop was just across the street and John hurried to close his shop, hands shaking as he took a deep breath. Sherlock was waiting next to him. John had proposed to keep his bouquet inside the shop for now, so that it wouldn’t get damaged while they sat and talked.

“I’m ready,” he declared, looking back at Sherlock, “Let’s go.”

Sherlock nodded and John smiled, looking away again. He needed to get it together. There was no way Sherlock hadn’t caught on with the flowers John had chosen for his bouquet. John had taken a risk, a big one, and he knew it. Sherlock Holmes was not the kind of men you met everyday and somehow, John couldn’t let himself miss his chance. If he even had one.

“You come here often,” Sherlock stated when they sat.

“How do you know?” John smiled.

“You came directly to this table, not bothering to check if some others were free, and you’ve already decided what you will drink.”

“And what is that?”

Sherlock locked eyes with him. “Green tea, two sugar.”

John laughed. “Spot on!”

Sherlock smiled in front of him, fingers playing with the napkin on the table. They both remained silent for a moment, only being disturbed by their waitress. John searched for anything to say, anything interesting enough to hold Sherlock’s attention and not make him want to run away.

“Are you working on a case right now?” he finally asked, sipping at his tea.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, almost too quickly and John frowned. Was he already bored?

“Something interesting?”

Sherlock shrugged but John caught something in his eyes, in the way his entire body had tensed. Sherlock wasn’t bored, he was nervous. John held back a smile, not wanting to make him even more uncomfortable.

“Are you allowed to talk about it?” John asked and this time smiled when he saw Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I can do whatever I want!”

“Then I’d love to hear about it,” John continued.

Sherlock’s eyes locked with his and John felt his heartbeat quickened under the his stare. He was frozen in his seat, not able to move or look away. John realised he loved to be the subject of Sherlock’s focused attention, that he needed to keep these sharp eyes on him for hours.

“There was this woman claiming her husband had abducted their only child, taking him outside the country but no one believed her because the husband died two years ago. I proved that he faked his death and did actually kidnap his son.”

John blinked, trying to process what Sherlock had just said, fast, really fast.

“Faked his death?”

“Yes.”

John rubbed his hand against his jeans, wondering if he could ask for more details or if Sherlock was finished. God, that man was hard to read.

“And how did he do it?”

Sherlock stared at him again and a faint smile appeared on his lips, and somehow John knew he just marked a point. He smiled back, breathing out slowly to regain some controls and listened as Sherlock began to explain in great details just how the man had managed to make everyone believed he died in a car crash just because he was bored with his routine.

By the time the waiter brought them their seconds drinks, John had noticed three different customers that had waited for a moment in front of his shop before leaving. But he didn't care. Sherlock Holmes was fascinating. John couldn't look away, couldn't believe he was here, listening to this man’s adventures and wishing he could be part of it.

“Then I only had to call the police and it was over for the both of them,” Sherlock concluded before finishing his tea.

“I can't believe they actually tried to rob the same bank twice in one month,” John declared, leaning back in his chair.

“People do stupid things when desperate.”

“I guess so, yes.”

Sherlock frowned at him and John tried to search for anything to say to keep him from deducing what he was thinking.

“Your brother, alcoholic but his wife is straying anyway,” Sherlock stated before he could think of something and John looked away.

“Sister,” he corrected and smiles when he heard Sherlock cursed under his breath, “Clara is certain she can make her stop.”

“The chance of fixing a relationship when alcohol is concerned are very low.”

“I know, but as you said, she’s desperate.”

They remained silent for a long minute, both of their cups empty now but John didn't want their meeting to end yet. He liked listening to Sherlock, liked to feel his feet bump into his before sliding away.

“But she's my sister, so I'm trying to be supportive. You have a brother, you should know.”

Sherlock burst into laugher in front of him and John frowned. “What?”

“My brother and I never got along, and I couldn't care less if he was drinking his weight in alcohol.”

“You can't be serious, he's your brother.”

“Clearly you haven't meet him,” Sherlock replied, “and I hope you’ll never have to.”

John looked down, feeling stupid as a knot formed in his stomach. This wasn't even a date and here he was, thinking about meeting Sherlock’s family.

“My parents are nicer, I guess.”

John's head snapped back up, not able to hold back a smile, “Are they?”

“How would I know?” Sherlock smiled, and John laughed.

John was about to ask more about them when Sherlock’s phone rang, making them both jump with surprise. Sherlock took one look at it before answering and John called for the waiter so he could pay. He knew this moment would have to end eventually, and he had been lucky enough to hold Sherlock’s attention for two long hours.

“I need to go,” Sherlock explained after hanging up, “new case.”

“I should get back to my shop anyway.” John smiled. “Do you want to take your bouquet now?”

“Yes, I'm not sure how long this one will take.”

John nodded, “All right.”

He paid quickly, Sherlock taking out his credit card before putting it back when John insisted it was his treat.

“You can pay next time,” he joked as they walked back to the shop but Sherlock didn't answered, waiting for him on the pavement as John went to take his bouquet.

“Thank you again for the bouquet,” Sherlock said, eyes fixed on the flowers.

“It was my pleasure, really.”

Sherlock’s eyes met his again for the briefest second, his phone beeping in his pocket.

“Next time, then?” he asked, making the warmth in John’s chest expand to his entire body.

“Yes, next time.”

Sherlock nodded, hovering in the pavement for another second before turning around and walking away. John stared at him for a long moment, not trying to hide his smile.

He was going to seduce that man.


	3. Chapter 3

Something wasn’t right.

Frowning, Sherlock ducked behind a parked car to peer through the window inconspicuously.

Inside the flower shop, John was talking to what had a first seemed like a customer, but there was something odd about the interaction. John was more engaged and more emotional than he was with other customers. If Sherlock wasn’t mistaken, there was a glimmer in his eye. When he turned slightly, Sherlock saw the customer: a woman, tall and raven-haired. She was pretty, by all standards.

A… Possible date then? Girlfriend? _Wife?_

No, it couldn’t be. Sherlock was quite sure that John was gay… Was he? Thinking back to their earlier interactions, only a few days ago, there might have been some contradictory signs. John had been really friendly to Sherlock, but he’d been friendly to everyone. The way he’d smiled at the waitress when they were in the cafe? The way he’d smiled at female customers? Wasn’t that the same smile that made Sherlock weak in the knees when it was directed at him? John had never said anything about his sexuality, they hadn’t talked about ex-partners or current partners...

Sherlock sunk back to sit on the edge of the sidewalk. The sun warmed his shoulders to the point where he was starting to feel overheated, and he silently cursed his Belstaff. He’d put it on because it made him feel comfortable and tall and self-confident. Which he needed today, because he was going to ask John out on a date, a proper date, something involving a fancy dinner.

Or at least, that had been the plan.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

He scooted over a little bit to look at John again. He had his hand on the woman’s shoulder now, and was looking at her intensely. (Oh, god – the idea of having that intense gaze directed at him made Sherlock weak in the knees.) She had her back turned towards the window, which made it difficult to see, but her shoulders seemed hunched. This was definitely not just a scene between a shopkeeper and a customer. Sherlock tried to figure out what was happening. Maybe she was shy, and John was only trying to persuade her to go out with him? No, from their close stance, it seemed almost certain that they’d known each other for a while.

Partner, then. John didn’t wear a ring: girlfriend, most likely.

Sherlock bit his lips to keep them from trembling. He’d made such a fool of himself. Ordering flowers, ordering more flowers, flowers with certain meanings – meanings that John might not even have understood, looking back – and this whole embarrassing flirting thing, which had obviously been in vain.

This had happened before: someone would be even a little bit nice to him, and he’d take that as so much more than it actually was. He was so used to people disliking him, that he’d apparently completely lost the ability to tell the difference between friendship and love.

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw movement inside the shop.

Oh, god. They were hugging now. Sherlock shot up from the sidewalk, spiraling around so he had his back turned towards the shop window. He really didn’t need to see more of John interacting with that ghastly woman. The sun, shining directly into his face, made his eyes water. Inhaling deeply, he decided he was ready to leave.

Just then, he heard knocking and a faint “Sherlock!” just behind him. Before he could stop himself, he’d whirled around to see John knocking on the glass of the shop window from the inside and mouthing his name.

Oh, no. John had seen him. He really should have been more careful.

John waved at Sherlock, beaming, and beckoned for him to come in. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and raised his hand in a half-hearted wave back. He’d been so ready to walk away. He’d completely delete these embarrassing past few days, to sweep them into one of the empty closets in his mind palace, lock the door and throw away the key. He would stay away from the flower shop for at least six months, maybe longer, and then when he’d ever have to buy flowers again, he could act aloof and pretend he didn’t remember these few insignificant days in the spring of 2016. Or maybe he could chalk it up to being drugged?

Oh, bloody hell. John was hugging the woman near the door of his shop now, opening the door, and letting her out. She walked away in the opposite direction of where Sherlock was standing.

John waved at Sherlock. “Hey! Did you want to come in? I’ve got some excellent new deliveries. I’d love to put something nice together for you.”

Sherlock winced. He couldn’t just walk away now. He nodded, did his best to pull his face into a smile, and stalked over to where John was standing.

**

John let Sherlock walk inside the shop, checking the street for any potential clients before closing the door. He put the sign ‘closed’ on, making sure that they won’t be disturbed before turning to face Sherlock again. Except that Sherlock was nowhere in sight.

“Sherlock?”

No answer. John frowned, heading to the back of the shop. “Sherlock?”

“I was thinking yellow carnations this time.”

John jumped with surprise. “I was looking for you.”

“I was here,” Sherlock replied, eyes scanning the flowers around them, not once looking directly at John.

“All right,” he replied carefully, a knot forming in his stomach.

Everything had seemed fine the last time they had coffee, a habit they had taken for last few weeks, and John had been thinking of asking him to dinner, maybe even today. Sherlock always seemed to enjoy himself, deducing the customers around them and asking rather specific question about John’s time in the army. John had even managed to get some details on Sherlock’s family, and in particular his apparently really annoying brother.

“How many do you want?” He asked, hoping Sherlock won’t read the worry in his voice. “A full bouquet or do you need other flowers?”

“Just the carnations,” Sherlock replied.

“Are you sure?” John asked, turning to face him again, smiling, not yet ready to give up on him.  “I received some new delivery and I’m sure you’ll like them.”

He heard more than he saw Sherlock sighing. “I have a experiment waiting, I’ll come back later.”

“Wait,” John hurried to reply, “I wanted to ask you something.”

Sherlock glanced at him, but didn’t say a word. John inhaled deeply, “I was wondering if you’d like to go have dinner, whenever you can.”

Sherlock frowned, finally looking at John. “Dinner?”

“Yes,” John smiled, one hand rubbing at his nape, “I like coffee, but a real dinner could be nice.”

“Shouldn’t you be having dinner with–” Sherlock stopped, looking back at the window. “I’m not hungry.

John held back a smile, wondering if that was how Sherlock felt when he solved a case, and said, “Let me prepare something for you, won’t take long.”

Before Sherlock could say anything, John hurried to the back of his shop, collecting all the flowers he needed. Sherlock was surprisingly still here, hands clasped behind his back and he frowned at John, eyes lingering on the different flowers in his hand.

“Wh–”

“First,” John cut him off, “Some red daisies.” He handed the flowers to Sherlock. “With asparagus fern and hibiscus.”

Sherlock’s frown deepened, accepting the flowers from John.

“Then, some lavender and thornless roses,” John continued, heart beating faster, “and some carnations, but I think red suits this bouquet better than yellow. Don’t you think?”

“I–” Sherlock stopped, staring at the bouquet in his hands.

“I’m free tonight,” John offered. “Too bad you were just too late to meet Clara,” he added casually. “Harry’s wife, remember I told you about them? They’ve been fighting again.”

Sherlock looked back up at him, eyes scanning his face and John did his best not to look away. He needed to make him understand, to make certain Sherlock knew how much he was invested in this.

Sherlock nodded slowly. “Red carnations?” he asked in a whisper and John smiled, swaying on his feet.

“Yes. Is that all right?”

Sherlock’s entire body seems to relax as he smiled back at him. “Obviously.”

John could have kissed him, right there.

“So, tonight then?”

Sherlock nodded. “Tonight.”

John smiled, the warmth in his chest spreading through his entire body as Sherlock seemed to be unable to move again. They remained silent for long seconds, Sherlock’s eyes going from the flowers in his hand to John’s face, no, John’s lips.

“Somewhere special you want to go?” he asked, stepping closer.

“No,” Sherlock breathed out slowly, his breath tickling John's face as he stopped in front of him.

“I'll choose then?”

Sherlock nodded, eyes now fixed on John’s mouth. John wanted, God, how he wanted. It was insane, really, wanting someone that much after just a few weeks. But right now, John didn't care. He had just confessed his feelings to a beautiful, mysterious, fascinating man, and John had never felt more alive.

“Sherlock, I–”

“Yes.”

John’s laugh echoed in the shop and he closed one hand around Sherlock's wrist, stepping even closer until he only had to arch up his head to seal their lips together. He felt Sherlock tense for a second, and John let his thumbs caress the palm of his hand, brushing their lips together until Sherlock melted into the touch and finally, finally, kissed him back. The soft sound of flowers falling the floor made John smile into the kiss, Sherlock’s arms closing around his waist.

“Didn't you mention an experiment?” John smiled when they parted, Sherlock resting his forehead against his.

“It can wait.”

John smiled, pressing their bodies together, and kissed him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Sherlock. The yellow carnations he was proposing stand for disappointment and rejection.
> 
> Contrast with John's answer: red daisies (beauty unknown to possessor), asparagus fern (fascination) and hibiscus (consumed by love, delicate beauty). If that wasn't clear enough, the lavender (love and devotion) and thornless roses (love at first sight, early attachment), coupled with the red carnations ("my heart aches for you"), definitely made his intentions clear.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! We had so much fun writing this. We made heavy use of the list of flower meanings at http://www.victorianbazaar.com/meanings.html.
> 
> Your comments and kudos are, as always, appreciated. <3


End file.
